LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap.. Copyright No 



~~J?M 



UNITED STATES OF AMEKICA. 




JOHN SPOLLON. 



MARY ANN; 



OR, 



Advice To a Street-Walker, 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



BY 

John Spollon, 

Author of " Adventures of a Tramp," etc. 



Published by 
JOS. M. WADE, 

BOSTON, MASS. 
1900. 



94746 



[LJbrwiry of Congress 

Hvo Copies Received 
DEC 27 1900 

| Copyright entry 

SECOND COPY 

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Copyright, 1900, 



John Spollon. 



DeDicatefc 

tLo tt^c (Temple mfyose pillars form a Square, 
Gnb to er>ery man mfyo morsfyips tfyere 
23erteatfy its cast borne, fyelb fyigfy aboce 
2Sy liberty, Hature, Crutfy anb £oce. 



INTRODUCTION. 



At the. suggestion of Mr. Joseph M. Wade, in 
whose journal, Fibre and Fabric, many of them 
first appeared, I make this selection from about two 
hundred songs, satires and poems which I have writ- 
ten. This book contains what Mr. Wade considers 
my message. I opine that every man is born with a 
message of some kind, but not every man finds time 
to deliver his. 

My poetical writings, in a lighter and more humor- 
ous vein, will appear later, in a larger volume, at the 
same price, if I have time, and there is a demand 
for it. 



PREFACE. 



I pity the man who can't dream as he drudges, 

Thus making his drudgery nothing but play; 
Whose mind is so small that it meanly begrudges 

Room to thoughts that bend not o'er the task of 
the day. 
On the man who, when Fancy familiarly nudges, 

Cannot spare a brief moment the charmer to greet, 
June's sun may shine brightly as onward he trudges, 

But the sands of the desert are under his feet. 



CONTENTS. 



Prologue : Rhyme and Rhythm 
Mary Ann ; or, Advice to a Street 
Two Graves 



The Russian Peasant to his 

Song of the March Wind 

The Unshrived Penitent 

" Fallen " Women 

Big Betsey Brady 

The Hermit's Dream . 

Queen Heva 

Portrait of a Beauty . 

Decoration Day . 

Weaving . 

The Unsung Hero 

The Pioneers of Thought 

The Idle Factory 

Two Views, a Duet 

We Pass but Once 

Our Flag Afloat 

A Christmas Eve Bargain 

Karma 

Monkey and Cat 

A Merry Christmas 

Aspiration 

The Sphinx 

Legend of the Willow 

Lament of Lamech 



Dying Child 



Walker 



13 
15 

16 

19 
23 
27 
28 
32 
34 
35 
37 
38 

39 

40 

42 
43 
45 
46 

47 
49 
5o 
5 1 
52 
53 
54 
55 



CONTENTS. 



Difficulties 

The Two . 

A Star 

The Wild Rose . 

He Wants to Know . 

The Source of Happiness 

Poets of the People 

A Green Christmas 

The Bohemian Brotherhood 

Commerce and Nature 

Epitaph for a Wooden Grave-Mark 

Song of a River 

Night 

Excuses 

"To-day" 

Harmony . 

The Laureate to his Psyche 

Walt Whitman's Poetry 

The Kingdom of Silence 

To the Evening Star . 

My Forty-Fourth Christmas 

Infidelity . 

Two Choirs 

To-morrow 

To the Iconoclast 

Epitaph 

The Empty Flask 

Death in Life 

The Fisherman's Mother 

The Missing Link 

Heaven and Hell 

The True School 

The Thinker's Grave . 

A Prayer . 



PROLOGUE: RHYME AND RHYTHM. 



As it fits the poet's humor 
And the burden of his poem, 
Rhyme is like the sun-kissed ripples, 
Or the wind-tossed foaming surges, 
Or the mountain-mocking billows 
On the surface of the ocean. 

Many praise the perfect metre, 
Criticise the rhyme and rhythm, 
As they gaze upon the changing 
Moods and motions of old Ocean, 
Who should imitate the diver, 
Plunging deep beneath the surface 
Where the mystic under current 
Will reward them with the treasures 
From the superficial hidden; 
Will reward them with the meaning 
Of the poet and his soul-thought. 



MARY ANN; OR, ADVICE TO A STREET-WALKER. 



It seems to me you're far too pert, 

Mary Ann, 

A saucy, brazen, desperate flirt, 

Mary Ann. 

With high society begirt, 

A man like me you cannot hurt ; 

For you're not sprung from hothouse dirt, 

Mary Ann, my Mary Ann. 

It is a shame to walk the street, 

Mary Ann, 

Accosting every man you meet, 

Mary Ann. 

Resolve to tread the pave no more ; 

Take a room with your name upon the door. 

There's such a thing as a decent w , 

Mary Ann, my Mary Ann. 

To hide the odor of the tomb, 

Mary Ann, 
Sprinkle yourself with loud perfume, 

Mary Ann. 
Keep hidden in your private room 
Some twenty pounds of Youthful Bloom; 
Twill cover wrinkles — postpone doom, 

Mary Ann, my Mary Ann. 



14 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

When into furnished rooms you go, 

Mary Ann, 

Wear silk instead of calico, 

Mary Ann. 

And here's another pretty plan: 

There's difference in the eyes of man, 

'Twixt Marianne and Mary Ann, 

Mary Ann, my Mary Ann. 

The name upon your door should be 

Marianne. 

There's quite a difference, you see: 

Marianne. 

Although it sounds about the same, 

It looks much better as a name. 

Thin is the wall 'twixt praise and blame, 

Mary Ann, my Mary Ann. 

And when in public you appear, 

Mary Ann, 
Of low society keep clear, 

Mary Ann. 
Turn up your nose with haughty sneer 
When old acquaintances draw near, 
And for the "higher circles" steer, 

Mary Ann, my Mary Ann. 

Drink sherry wine instead of beer, 

Mary Ann, 
And leave off chewing snuff, my dear 

Mary Ann. 
Above all things keep clean, I pray; 
Be sure to take a bath each day, 
And you will handle better pay, 

Mary Ann, my Mary Ann. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 15 

Take this advice and you'll begin, 

Mary Ann, 

Through a world of woe your way to win, 

Mary Ann. 

When you let Respectability pin 

Her cloak around your scarlet sin, 

Perhaps I'll call and find you in, 

Mary Ann, my Mary Ann. 



TWO GRAVES. 

Some years ago there lived a maid 

As ugly as a porcupine, 
Never a sunny smile essayed 

To make that homely face divine. 
Her heart was gall, and unto all 

Who dared to mention love to her, 
She tossed her head and proudly said, — 

"Thank heaven I've a character!" 

And certainly her virtue had 

Impenetrable coat of mail 
In homeliness, which not a lad 

Ever attempted to assail. 
She had a sister, fair and frail, 

Whom — when business carried her 
Past her window — she would hail: — 

"Thank heaven I've a character!" 

The frail one died, and kind hands laid 
P>esh flowers on her verdant sod; 

And there were loving hearts that prayed 
For mercy unto Mercy's God. 



16 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS, 

Miss Homely lingered on awhile, 

And then Death came and married her, 

The undertaker, with a smile, 

Off to the graveyard carried her. 

Her grave, neglected and forlorn, 

With rank weeds soon was overgrown ; 
Brier and thorn were there to warn 

Any who dared approach their throne. 
Like soldiers brave they guard her grave, 

And to the wayside traveller, 
Passing that way, they seem to say, — 

"Thank heaven we've a character!" 



THE RUSSIAN PEASANT TO HIS DYING CHILD. 

Departing Spirit, pure and bright, 

Why should I say remain 
In the realm of eternal night 

And life of ceaseless pain? 
If thou wert well advanced in years 

And deeply dyed in guilt, 
There would be cause for fruitless tears, 

But go now — if thou wilt. 
For thou hast found a friend in Death, 

And not a dreaded foe. 
Welcome him with parting breath 

And gladly with him go. 

:•: i£ >k -fi * %. 

When thou hast ta'en thy outward flight, 

Ere thou art too far gone — 
Just pause and look back at the sight 

Which yonder sun shines on — 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 17 

With sweeping glance thou'lt take in all 

The works of little Man. 
Thou'lt see him toil, fight, strut and crawl, 

And hear him plot and plan. 
Thou'lt mark, amused, his monkey tricks, 

His false gods and his schools ; 
Hear parsons preaching politics 

And dunces teaching fools. 
Hear ornaments of science yearn — 

And say what they would give — 
To know what thou'rt about to learn 

While still on earth they live ; 
See legislative bodies which 

Enjoy the sinecure 
Of making laws to please the rich 

And persecute the poor. 
See Intellect — the demigod — 

Defend the meanest cause : 
Exert his power for vulgar fraud, 

And court the clown's applause ; 
Draw Luxury's coach through Folly's streets. 

In mire up to his knees, 
While brainless asses on the seats 

Within recline at ease. 
See Culture bend the pliant knee 

Before the titled Hog 
And dazzled by rank and pedigree 

Burn incense till a fog 
Of fulsome adulation shrouds 

The loathsome wretch from sight, 
As in midsummer heavy clouds 

Ward off the sun's hot light ; 
Whilst, all unheeded, modest Worth 

Stands friendless and alone ; 



18 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

No voice to call his powers forth, 

They die, with him, unknown. 
See Charity's hands outstretched to those 

Far o'er the ocean's foam ; 
Her feet upon the naked toes 

Of paupers here at home. 
See haughty Honor wave away 

The bribe she scorns to touch, 
And hear her voice in low tones say: 

"Please make it twice as .much." 
See Youth's fast fleeting springtime spent 

In ways of fruitless ends, 
And hear his demon — Discontent — 

Called Genius by his friends. 
When he at last, with footsteps faint, 

His favorite phantom nears, 
Anticipation's gaudy paint 

He'll wash away with tears — 
Find Disappointment ghostly pale, 

Where rose-cheeked Hope did call, 
As when, a child, he tried to nail 

A shadow to the wall. 
See Manhood — strong, ambitious, proud — 

The helm in his firm hand, 
Steer straight toward a sunlit cloud, 

Which he mistakes for land ; 
Pursuing still a hopeful course 

Till on the reef he's cast, 
And age looks back in wild remorse 

Upon the wasted past. 

But let me not regard with scorn 

The planet of my birth ; 
For after all I'd feel forlorn 

And loath to leave thee, earth ! 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 19 

For all thy sins and follies, too, 

I'd willingly atone, 
If I had not enough to do 

To answer for my own. 
But thou — my child — thou art not lost ; 

Be not afraid to go 
Away from earth where trouble tossed 

I wander to and fro ; 
Away to realms more beauteous far, 

To dwell among the good, 
Or travel on from star to star 

Till life be understood. 



SONG OF THE MAECK WIND. 

Sensitive dame, whose tear-dimmed eye 

Dwells on Romance's graphic page, 
Whose tender heart can heave a sigh 
To sufferers on the mimic stage. 
Come, since I can't visit thee, 
Bravely venture forth to me. 

Nay, shudder not at my approach! 
Wrapped in armor soft and warm, 
I've no power to do thee harm, 

And can but help thee to thy coach. 

I will sing a song as you roll along, 

Than which you never heard a sweeter. 

There, you see, as it pleases me, 

I'll call thee you or I'll call you thee. 

My song, like me, shall be wild and free, 
And not confined to a certain metre. 



20 MARY ANN, AND. OTHER POEMS. 

With my humor it shall vary: 

Blustering, shrill, keen, melancholy, 

Inconstant, lively, fierce, soft, jolly, 
Irregular, odd, fantastic, airy — 
Coachman! Coachman! be more wary! 
That figure ahead is not a fairy; 
Not Imogene, the imaginary, 

With whom, on the novel's page, we meet ; 
Nor any romantic, quaint vagary, 
But ragged, famishing real Mary. 

Don't trample her under your horses' feet, 

As she picks her way across the street. 
For a wonder, you have safely passed her. 
Had you not, she'd deemed it no disaster, 

Having little else than life to lose. 
Lady, have you no sigh to cast her? 

Then — something for which you have no use — 

Throw the poor soul your overshoes. 
Coachman, drive a little faster. 

Ah. madam! surely there's an object worthy of your 
tears ; 

Just look at that young vagabond, he's but a child in 
years ; 

Yet in knowledge and experience he's far ahead of 
time : 

Knowledge of all kinds of vice — experience in crime. 

There shone for him no guiding star when launched 
upon life's sea ; 

No beacon light a warning gave 'gainst shallow com- 
pany ; 

No gentle voice to pilot him, no hand to trim his sail ; 

His mother died of sheer neglect, his father is in jail. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 2! 

Left to shape his course alone, he mingled with the 

scum, 
And is drifting to rascality upon a sea of rum. 
He's drifting, drifting hopelessly, no hand is stretched 

to save ; 
Alas! I fear he'll sink into a politician's grave. 

Stop! here's another chance to weep. 
Here's a row of tenements — cheap. 
Just come with me and take a peep 
At cracks and crevices wide and deep, 
Through which I pass with breath of ice. 
You'll say they're dear at any price. 
The wretched inmates, you will find, 
All belong to human kind. 
They have, like you, their petty spites 
And nonsensical delights, 
But aren't blest, like those above 'em, 
With wealth and culture to improve 'em. 
The frailties strung to your kite's tail 
They have, but on a smaller scale. 
Yet they are none the worse for that, 
My dollar-marked aristocrat! 
You'll find domestic dramas there: 
In rum the laborer drowns the care 
He finds upon his breadless shelf. 
His wife, long suffering, in despair. 
The river seeks to drown herself. 
Whilst I, most mournfully emphatic, 
Whistle music upper attic. 
Ha! Here's another home we pass, 
With tenants of the ''better class." 
There's a shadow hanging o'er this home, 
A cloud of shame and woe ; 



22 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

And yet the stranger well may ask: 

From whence the threatened blow? 
There seems to be no poverty — 

There is no lack of bread ; 
Death is not in waiting here 

Beside the sick one's bed ; 
The parents are no wranglers ; 

They have no peevish child, 
No disobedient daughter, 

No son corrupt and wild. 
From all such ills they are exempt, 

But there is something worse: 
The noble spirit's galling chain — 

Debt — debt, that bitter curse. 
The passing stranger well may think 

His is a happy lot. 
His children prattle round his knee ; 

He hears, he sees them not. 
He only hears the hiss of shame — 

Most galling to his pride ; 
Sees, for the first time. Honor bright 

In horror leave his side, 
And, shuddering, turn away from him 

To hide her burning face, 
As o'er his happy threshold falls 

The shadow of Disgrace. 
Ere he becomes a hypocrite, 

A liar and a thief ; 
Ere in thy boundless Providence 

He loses all belief; 
While there remains within his breast 

One spark of Manhood yet, 
Almighty One! reach forth thy hand, 

And rescue him from Debt. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 23 

Why stops the coach where lights are gleaming 

brightly? 
Is this the theatre where my fair friend nightly 
Applauds the efforts of the tragic muse? 
Unheard by her my orchestra must rage, 
Where storm-clouds curtain Tragedy's true stage. 
Thus snugly housed the play-seers nightly lose 
Sight of the real show, and leave unheard 
The song of real woe. The tragic bard 
Is at his best a song-bird in a cage. 



THE UNSHKIVED PENITENT. 

"To-night there's a soul to be shriven; 

O, good priest, arise from your bed. 
Brief time for repentance is given, 

So make haste," the messenger said. 

"The old Squire is rapidly failing; 

Grim death at his threshold appears: 
Already the Banshee is wailing; 

Her voice on the night wind he hears." 

Upon the green fields and lone highway 
The pale moon her radiance shed, 

As through ev'ry short-cut and by-way 
The priest on his high mission sped. 

In all haste his journey pursuing, 
He drew near the edge of a wood, 

Hard by where a picturesque ruin 

Showed where a proud castle once stood 



24 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

'Twas one of those ruins that share in 
Adorning the footprints of time — 

That furnish the poet of Erin 

With many a theme for his rhyme. 

Aslant through the roofless walls streaming 
The radiant moonlight now falls, 

And sets all the bare windows gleaming 
As if there were lights in the halls: 

Lights, too, that were kindled by ringers 
That have no more substance than light. 

A moment the passing priest lingers 
To gaze at the weird ghostly sight. 

Hark! Forth from those ruined walls pouring 
Comes a sad, sweet, melodious strain, 

'Tis some captive Syren deploring 
The loss of her dearly loved main ; 

Or some fallen angel, complaining 

Of her exile from Paradise, sings 
A threnody sweet, still retaining 

Her voice, though deprived of her wings. 

Those voices of various insects, 

That sound, on a calm summer night, 

Like the breathing of slumbering Nature. 
Are hushed now in breathless delight. 

All things seem listening and gloating ; 

The priest stands like one in a dream, 
Whilst Time's imperceptibly floating 

Down melody's silvery stream. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 25 

Alas, for that sinner's hereafter! 

Enchained to the spot stands the priest 
Till the charm is broken by laughter 

Triumphant. The singing has ceased. 

He hears in the silence which follows 

The insects their chorus resume. 
A cloud-bank the bright moonlight swallows, 

The ruin is shrouded in gloom. 

The gloom and the silence unheeding, 

Approaching the ivy-clad door, 
Undaunted the priest is proceeding 

To enter the ruin and explore. 

King Solitude reigning supremely 

In sombre state here meets his view, 

"Who sings at an hour so unseemly?" 
A solemn owl answers: "Ah Whoo!" 

A bell ringing two in the morning, 

Though distant, distinctly is heard. 
Time's solemn voice gives him warning, 

Reminds him of duty deferred ; 

And he, filled with direful misgiving, 

To the penitent's home hurries on, — 

Too late! for he finds on arriving 

That th' unabsolved spirit is gone. 
* * * * * 

"The merciful Lord may forgive him," 
Said one who had known him of old. 

"The tale of his sin did outlive him ; 
Full often have I heard it told. 



26 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

"His soul was with many sins laden, 
But that was the worst one I'm sure. 

In his young days he courted a maiden 
As fair as a May-day — but poor. 

"With promises fair he bereft her 

Of all she held dear, and — behold! 
Having compassed her ruin he left her 

And wedded another for gold. 

"He tried to thrust money upon her 

To sweeten her embittered cup. 
Can a rent in the mantle of Honor 

By needles of gold be sewn up? 

"The crack made in Honor's bright chalice 

By gold is cemented in vain, 
For the fingers of scorn and malice 

Will show where the traces remain. 

"She went to be safe from intrusion 

To the place where the priest was beguiled, 

And there, in despair and seclusion, 
She died with her newly born child. 

"And we all believed that she haunted 

That ruin, lamenting her wrong; 
That nightly her spirit voice chanted 

A mournful melodious song; 

"That — delaying her lover's last unction 
Till his spirit met hers face, to face, — 

'Twas her voice kept the priest from his function 
That night in the old trysting place." 

Note. — I got the idea of the above from on old Irish 
legend. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 27 

" FALLEN » WOMEN. 

When a woman falls, God help her, 'tis a heavy, hope- 
less fall. 

Pounced upon that moment by her sisters one and all, 

Her attempt to rise but serves to rouse their most 
vindictive ire. 

With their muddy feet upon her, down they hold her 
in the mire. 

Once on their plane she'll seek in vain for woman's 

pity then, 
For mercy in a woman's heart is only meant for men. 
A man may trip and rise again, and reach ambition's 

goal ; 
But God alone has mercy on a fallen woman's soul. 

God help the fallen woman, e'en though liars say she 

fell; 
For the best of men will listen to the tale the gossips 

tell, 
And wit is most alluring when rank poison tips the 

dart, 
They most enjoy sharp-shooting when the target is a 

heart. 

Sham-Virtue, you're a cruel judge. Beneath your 

spotless cloak 
There is a big week's washing, and the prying nose 

you poke 
Into other people's linen is accustomed to vile smells 
In the inner chamber of your heart where evil passion 

dwells. 



28 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

BIG BETSY BRADY. 

Who was Big Betsy Brady? I'll wager you didn't 

spend 
Much of your time in this town or you wouldn't ask 

that, my friend. 
'Twas her maiden name, but it stuck to her as long as 

she was alive, 
Although she had buried four husbands and was 

looking for number five 
When she met with Teddy Driscoll, ex-champion 

featherweight. 
'Twas something of a Jersey match ; but they entered 

the marriage state. 
The soberest member of the thurch could scarce re- 
press a smile 
To see the pair when they were spliced march down 

the centre aisle. 
Indeed it was enough to make the parson laugh to 

see 'em. 
The biggest woman you ever saw outside of a dime 

museum. 
With her feet unshod she towered six feet six inches 

high. 
Her arm was as big around as an ordinary thigh. 
Yet she wasn't burdened by useless fat, she wasn't 

too big around, 
But she'd step on the scales and kick the beam at 220 

pound. 
Teddy was only five foot three and weighed but a 

hundred and ten ; 
But he was all there, and I've seen him licking bigger 

and stronger men. 
He was wiry, tough and agile ; and could spring like 

a tiger-cat — 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 29 

A fighting man, as I said before, but she wasn't aware 

of that ; 
For he had retired from the business, and he wasn't 

the man to blow 
And fight his battles over again ; that's why she didn't 

know. 
Well, they settled down quite peacefully, and the 

neighbors began to say: 
"She is going to use him better than the men she has 

laid away." 
The fact is, Betsy was rather proud; it seems she 

looked down on him 
With a mixture of scorn and pity, for he was so small 

and slim ; 
Till at last one day he came home drunk, and she 

pounced on him for that ; 
Grabbed him by the neck and shook him as a dog 

would shake a rat ; 
Then flung him into a corner to recover from his bust. 
But he staggered, half sobered, to his feet, saying, 

"Betsy, I fear I must 
Give you a licking, mv daisy ; 'tis a thing I hate to 

'do; 
But perhaps you think I haven't much advantage 

over you?" 
She looked at him in wonderment, and then she 

laughed outright. 
Said she: "You've drank enough to-day to deprive 

you of your sight. 
You don't know who you're talking to, you wretched 

little clam ; 
So I'll give you a good sound thrashing, just to show 

you who I am. 
You little runt! I'll spank you well and tuck you 

into bed." 



30 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

She took a step towards him ; he threw up his dukes 

and said: 
"I never struck a woman yet, and I hate to do it now ; 
But, Betsy, keep your distance ; if you don't I'll lam 

you how!" 
She made a rush well meant to crush. He ducked, 

then leaping high, 
Planted two blows upon her nose that made the claret 

fly. 
Quickly she turned while vengeance churned her 

blood to liquid fire, 
While alert he stood, as a fighter should, ready to 

meet her ire. 
At him again like a hurricane the angry woman 

dashed; 
But a hundred thousand brilliant stars upon her vi- 
sion flashed 
And both of her eyes were blackened. Yet still with 

vision dim 
Around she groped and madly hoped to get her hands 

on him. 
Full well he knew that if she did he wouldn't escape 

alive ; 
So he nimbly hopped, and ducked and dropped; at 

every chance let drive 
His right and left as lightning swift ; then out of 

reach he'd jump 
While her ponderous arms churned the air with many 

a fearful thump. 
By this a crowd had gathered, and at each window sill 
Heads appeared and bets were made on the outcome 

of the mill. 
A touch of human nature was observable in the fact 
That the men all bet on Betsy, while 'twas Teddy the 

women backed. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 31 

But no one offered to interfere and put an end to the 

strife, 
For it isn't wholesome to meddle in a row between 

man and wife. 
One tenderfoot suggested that he for a cop should 

run ; 
But the rest all swore they'd spill his gore if he dared 

to spoil the fun. 
Some voices advised Ted sagely, while others en- 
couraged her: 
"Blind her, Teddy!" "Fall on him, Betsy! Smash 

the little cur!" 
Teddy went dancing around the room, here, there, 

everywhere ; 
While blows that would send him to his tomb were 

wasted on empty air — 
Though some of 'em landed on the wall, smashing 

the pictures there, 
And knocking holes in the plaster in a way that 

would make you stare. 
But Teddy's blows fell the faster on her eyes, nose, 

mouth and jaw. 
'Twas the grandest display of science and brute 

strength I ever saw. 
He kept cool as an iceberg, while she went raving 

wild. 
But she weakened at last, and sitting down, wept like 

a little child. 
She didn't survive that battle long, for she pined away 

and kicked. 
It wasn't the licking that killed her, but the thought 

that she had been licked. 



32 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

THE HERMIT'S DREAM. 

The hermit slept, where civilization's light 
Had not succeeded darkness with a blight; 
Where none but welcome visions dared intrude, 
Upon his chosen sacred solitude ; 
No visitors to make him yearn for night — 
For midnight's silence and the reign of Thought- 
Could shatter there his meditative mood ; 
And, dreaming, saw a man who was too good 
To live, like him, in solitude self-sought; 
One to whom Nature had, with justice rare. 
Given of wit and wisdom equal share. 
Of his wisdom he was not too well aware ; 
While mercy ruled his wit and drew the rein 
On fun that gave a fellow-creature pain. 
Reason held all his passions in control ; 
Honor, which is to the immortal soul 
W T hat health is to the body, was his guide ; 
A quiet conscience kept with seeming pride 
The head erect of one who ne'er defied, 
With fourth-rate actor's scowl of scorn and hate. 
The consequence of folly — know T n as "Fate." 

For that which any liar can bespot — 
A "spotless reputation"— he cared not ; 
To intellectual greatness mutely bowed, 
But gave a loving heart his praises loud ; 
From rank and jewelled fingers turned aside 
To grasp an honest hand with honest pride : 
In womankind his higher self appeared ; 
At pure Platonic love he never sneered : 
Beauty admired, but motherhood revered. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 33 

The hermit gazed upon him with a smile 
And muttered to himself, "I like his style/' 

As Byron said, when on a different theme, 
"A change came o'er the spirit of his dream." 

He saw a woman then in whom was joined 
Good sense and beauty equally combined ; 
Who spent not half the morning at her glass, 
Learning a pose to please some perfumed ass ; 
Who wedlock with a beast in human shape 
Feared as she would a fierce gorilla's rape ; 
Who did not take true modesty to mean 
Stockings too badly damaged to be seen ; 
Who 'neath a stylish suit of clothes could see 
The nerveless arm and leg weak at the knee ; 
Could see beneath the hat, raised with an air, 
An empty head of nicely barbered hair ; 
But saw no evil passions from her breast 
Reflected in some sister, better dressed ; 
Nor would that sister's faults too nicely scan. 
"She's worthy," said the hermit, "of the man! 

'Twas but a dream, and yet methinks I can 
Find in the flesh that woman and that man, 
And joining them in wedlock, start the birth 
Of a new race of beinsrs on this earth." 



'&>' 



Leaving his peaceful solitude behind. 
Lie sought the crowded hives of human kind 
And wandered north and south and east and west, 
And wanders yet in his vain hopeless quest. 



34 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

QUEEN HEVA. 

Around this grove where now I stand 
Once stood a forest great and grand, 

Where good Queen Heva reigned of old. 
She knew no fashions, wore no dress, 
But slept here in her nakedness 

The winter long, and caught no cold. 

But all the summer time she spent, 
With woman's love of ornament 

Devoid of Admiration's snare, 
Decking herself with flowers sweet ; 
With velvet moss she shod her feet, 

And oak-leaves crowned her golden hair. 

October saw this lovely queen 
In regal state ; her robe of green 
So richly trimmed with every shade 
From pink to scarlet, brown to gold, 
That artists, merely to behold, 
Many a weary journey made. 

In innocence she dwelt here long, 
And voiced her happiness in song — 

Harmonious voice of solitude! 
The sturdy trees, her body-guard, 
Like soldiers stood and entrance barred 

To Giant Progress — called the Good. 

But soon her birds took flight in fear ; 
The Giant's axe alarmed her ear, 

As down her faithful sentries fell 
Tree after tree. Her song was hushed. 
She paled with fear — with shame she blushed ; 

But where to flv she could not tell. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 35 

Retreat seemed circled. All around 
She heard tlr echoing axe resound ; 

And never since his painful birth 
Did Giant Progress show such force 
As when, upon his iron horse, 

He thundered o'er the trembling earth. 

But lost in him were Heva's charms. 
All beauty faded from his arms, 

Save that which Art alone improved. 
Good Imitation fired his heart. 
E'en Heva's form, if smeared by Art 

With paint, he would have dearly loved. 

Yet Heva, banished from thy home, — 
From grove to forest doomed to roam, 

Where voice of Progress can't be heard, — 
Though here thy reign is at an end, 
E'en here thy praise is crudely penned 

Bv thv uncultured rustic bard. 



PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTY. 

With hair white as snow, and thin ; 
Wrinkled parchment-colored skin ; 
Approximating nose and chin ; 

Body bent as if beneath 
A burden weighty ; 
Troubled with ''rheumatics" much — 
Although she called it but a "touch" 
She stood, leaning on her crutch, 

Showing her fifty dollar teeth, 
This dame of eighty. 



36 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

We gazed upon a portrait there 
Of a .maiden young and very fair. 
All unconfined her wealth of hair 
Fell around her shoulders bare — 

Disorderly, yet not amiss — 
In ringlets jetty ; 
Framing a perfect oval face, 
A head well poised 'twixt pride and grace, 
Dark-blue eyes that seemed to trace 
Our every movement round the place, 

Lips a man would die to kiss, — 
"You think her pretty?" 

"She's quite a beauty," I replied. 
"Ah, that she was!" the old dame cried. 
"She was the envy or the pride 
Of all who knew her. 
She for years the title bore 
Of village belle, and, what is more, 
Wealthy suitors by the score 
Came to woo her. 

"Ah, me! those happy days are gone. 
How rapidly the years roll on! 
There lives not now a single one 

Of all who sought her." 
A dreadful picture filled my mind 
Of twenty rivals all combined 
In mortal strife, to all things blind 

Save mutual slaughter. 
Not one survivor of that crowd! 
Luckily, when I spoke aloud 
I merely asked this dame so proud: 

"Was she your daughter?" 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 37 

"You must be blind, young man!" said she, 
Speaking quite indignantly. 
"You've no discernment, I can see ; 

I thought you'd plenty. 
Daughter, indeed! How very strange! 
Can there be so great a change? 
Why, bless your soul, that's me, you know ; 
Taken sixty years ago, 

When I was twenty !" 



DECORATION DAY. 

While brooding Memory strewed the dust 

With flowers fair, 
Faith, viewing from afar the scene, 

Would hardly dare 
To break the sacred silence with, 

"They lie not there!" 

For Sentiment was there with his 

Approving grin. 
Soon martial music filled the air 

With, mocking din. 
Sweet look the mounds as dead sea fruit — 
Ashes within. 

While only on remembered graves 

Fresh flowers lay; 
The quick'ning sun smiled on them all, 

And seemed to say — 
"Death is the Sun that rises on 
Fternal da v." 



38 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

In this fair land the battle cry 

Is heard no more ; 
No longer patriot souls defy 

The cannon's roar, 
Nor hireling war-dogs welt'ring lie 

In purchased gore. 

Still heroes, brave as ever fell 

On bloody field, 
Unknown maintain a noiseless fight, 

And never yield ; 
Death their reward, and honor bright 

Their only shield. 

No yearly memorials they need 

Upon their clay; 
Their work will live when chiselled fame 

Crumbles away, 
And seeds which they in earth-life sow 

Flourish for aye. 



WEAVING. 

To and fro the shuttles go. 

Tell us not the "fates" are weaving; 
While with care our work we do 
, Different doctrine we're believing. 

Tell us not so, for well we know 

There is no fate unless we're willing. 

To and fro the shuttles go, 

God made the warp, and man the filling. 



N - 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 39 

Of silken thread the warp is made ; 

The soul was made to fit the body. 
But to and fro the shuttles go 

For good or bad, for silk or shoddy. 

As to and fro the shuttles go 

We put no faith in faith's profession ; 

For well we know all work will show, 
And witness bear to each transgression. 



■& j 



THE UNSUNG HERO. 

While the tread of marching millions makes the 
ground beneath them quake, 
While colors flaunt and prancing chargers foam, 
With "Liberty" before them — Desolation in their 
wake ; 
Our unknown Hero starts to make a Home. 

While opposing forces struggle where the neutral vul- 
tures flock 
O'erhead without a hungry doubt or fear, 
He is felling sturdy timber, he is blasting barren 
rock ; 
Many wild and savage acres he must clear. 

He sends no steel-clad messenger through living- 
walls to plough ; 
The leaden seeds of death he does not sow ; 
But behind the plough he marches, honest sweat 
upon his brow, 
And his battle cry is, "Dura ye! Gee! Haw! 
Whoa!" 



40 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

To him whose skill can raise a siege on any kind of 
soil, 
Give rank and all the glory he may crave ; 
But the man who raised a mortgage after forty years 
of toil, — 
Let him slumber in his quiet, peaceful grave. 



THE PIONEEBS OF THOUGHT. 

Looking backward o'er the ages, little need we his- 
tory's pages 

To behold that band of sages from the vantage ground 
they sought. 

O, the axes, ploughs and rifles of our frontiersmen 
are trifles 

Compared with paper, pen and ink, and Pioneers of 
Thought. 

'Mid hyena-laughter, mocking, with the scaffold 

'neath them rocking, 
With that hangman grim and shocking, Superstition, 

long they strove. 
To a God of war and malice, as from sacrificial chalice, 
Their blood was spilled by men who preached a God 

of Peace and Love. 

From beneath the Tyrant's lashes — rising Phenix-like 
from ashes 

Of burnt heretics — they struggle on in spite of hoot- 
ing crowds ; 

On they're marching, higher, nearer, and their cause 
is plainer, clearer: 

As brightest lightning flashes from the blackest thun- 
der clouds. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 41 

Past the palace, through the prison, every step they 
take high treason, 

Their progress is not heralded by sound of martial 
drum. 

No banner borne before them, but with light of Rea- 
son o'er them, 

From Orient to Occident with high intent they come. 

Needless to recite each story of the battles long and 
gory 

Which, with monsters strong though hoary, our 
brave Pioneers have fought. 

All for us each bitter quarrel. Shall we crown them 
with the laurel? 

Tis a weed they held in high contempt, those Pio- 
neers of Thought. 

Not to make themselves notorious, nor to court ap- 
plause uproarious, 

But to make our night-sky glorious those stars arose 
and shone. 

That they made our labor lighter ; that their deathless 
thoughts are brighter, 

Ever growing and expanding — thoughtless sceptics 
will not own. 

Thoughts immortal? Unbeliever, think you of the 

toil-worn weaver, 
Whose weary hands the shuttle plied so many years 

ago. 
With stern Need behind him driving, he was thinking 

and contriving, , 

That his thoughts are living in our looms let Knowles 

or Crompton show. 



42 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Higher still those stars are rising, though the news 
may be surprising 

To the spark, whose brightness lies in his shoes with 
opera toes ; 

Who, in his own estimation, is the cream of all crea- 
tion ; 

Though of source or destination he neither thinks nor 
knows. 

Other paths ahead they're clearing, w r ith the world 
behind them sneering: 

Though commonplace the "miracles" their prede- 
cessors wrought. 

When the doubters will see through it they will shout, 
"We knew you'd do it!" 

For doubt is what they clear away, those Pioneers of 
Thought. 



THE IDLE FACTORY. 

Draw near and ponder on that ruin yonder 
Where colors gay frame a picture ill ; 

Where the strange bird Silence a little while since 
Swooped down to brood o'er a busy mill. 

The path is grass-grown, the wheel is moss-blown ; 

The raceway slimy as a stagnant pool ; 
Closed are the portals whence toil-freed mortals 

Came pouring forth like young boys from school. 

Ne'er more we'll see 'em in this mausoleum 

O'er which trade winds mourned 'till they fell be- 
calmed ; 

Labor lies dead here. The laborer fled, ere 
He himself should be rust-embalmed. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 43 

We saunter sadly where once we gladly 

Gave ear to music of mule and loom ; 
The place is lonely, green ivy only 

Is true in death to this giant tomb. 

Within, the scenery is dead machinery ; 

Here ingenuity has held his breath. 
Not a shaft is turning. The spider's earning 

Good wages here in the shuttle's path. 

Dull rust is king here ; no muse can sing here ; 

To the heart of Momus 'twould strike a chill. 
In a cemetery there's much more merry — 

More true to nature than an idle mill. 

Would the silence plague us of a sarcophagus — 
Shall we "shuffle off" here "this mortal coil"? 

No! Let echo slumber 'mid the dust and lumber 
Where once we listened to the song of toil. 



TWO VIEWS. A DUET. 

FIRST VETERAN*. 

Old comrade dear, I long to hear 

Again the battle's blare; 
The hostile shell, like fiend from hell, 

Come shrieking high in air ; 
The charging shout ; the foeman's rout 

From field unstained by gore. 
Were war like this methinks 'twere bliss 

To go to war once more. 



44 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

SECOND VETERAN. 

'Tis not denied; but when the tide 

Of battle turns and sweeps 
Back o'er the field where neither yield, 

Where even Victory weeps 
O'er heaps of slain upon the plain 

Where Peace had smiled of yore ; 
No! While I live my voice I'll give 

To Peace forevermore. 

FIRST VETERAN. 

I hear the drum ; I see them come, 

Ten thousand men like one; 
Ten thousand gleaming bayonets seem 

To smile back at the sun. 
The colors bright mine eyes delight ; 

That standard once I bore! 
Old Glory's star shines from afar — 

Guides me to war once more. 

SECOND VETERAN. 

The cannons crash ; their lightnings flash ; 

Their clouds obscure the sky 
And glorious sun. Bright colors run 

From wounds that close the eye. 
At home I hear the cry of fear 

Where laughter was before. 
Behold this scar! I fear not War; 

But, Peace, I love thee more. 

BOTH. 

When statesmen prate and war create. 

Let them the battle bear ; 
The laboring man and artisan 

Their country cannot spare. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 45 

Invasion they will drive away, 

And guard their native shore, 
Where hand in hand shall Honor stand 

With Peace forevermore. 



WE PASS BUT ONCE. 

Lone and cheerless in the sunset of your life, 
Worn and wearied by the fierce and fruitless strife, 
You will review the chances missed and fancies flown, 
Wild ambitions foiled and childish hopes outgrown ; 
But one thought shall fill your heart with deepest 

pain, 
Tis that you can never, never pass this way again ; 
Never with experience sail o'er this sea again. 

To help a struggling brother o'er a stormy mile, 
To cheer a heart bowed down, if only with a smile, 
To forego pleasure and avoid the rush for pelf, 
To build up humanity upon your buried selfj 
Too late, alas! one phantom thought will haunt your 

brain : 
'Tis that yon can never travel o'er this road again ; 
Never with your knowledge journey o'er this road 

again. 

Wear a smile, for frowns were never known to win ; 
Sing and joke, but keep the tale of woe within ; 
Soon you will find your shadow growing less and less, 
Till you stand finished in the noonday of success. 
Kindness conquers, learn to love your fellow-men, 
For you shall never, never pass this way again, 
Never can experience take you o'er this path again. 



46 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

OUR FLAG AFLOAT. 

Across the foam and far from home 

Our vessel proudly flies ; 
She seems to feel from truck to keel 

That, under foreign skies, 
She will be blessed by the oppressed 

Of Princes, Kings and Czars, 
When they behold with joy untold 

Her flag of Stripes and Stars. 

CHORUS. 

She's fore and aft a Yankee craft 
And manned by Yankee tars ; 

And on the breeze o'er alien seas 
Shall float her Stripes and Stars. 

And we her crew in jackets blue 

Our mission understand. 
Our sires we know long years ago 

For Freedom's chosen land 
Fought on the main, nor fought in vain, 

For triumph healed their scars ; 
And now 'tis ours to show "the Powers" 

Their flag of Stripes and Stars. 

The spirit bold that manned of old 

Small guns and wooden ships, 
Encased in steel from rail to keel 

Now speaks from guns whose lips 
Jove's thunder shame when they proclaim 

That Neptune's joined by Mars 
Where ocean's tide reflects with pride 

The flag of Stripes and Stars. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 47 

We claim no sway, nor do we prey 

On nations weak or small, 
Our land is broad enough, thank God, 

And there is room for all. 
But we our foeman's victim show 

Where peace no despot mars, 
A welcome smiles for all exiles 

Beneath the Stripes and Stars. 

Then spread more sail before the gale 

That from our distant home 
So gladly bears the hopes and prayers 

Of kindred o'er the foam. 
In right we trust. Our cause is just 

As 'twas in former wars. 
Tyranny's frown could ne'er haul down 

The flag of Stripes and Stars. 



A CHRISTMAS EVE BARGAIN. 

He was a peculiar son-of-a-gun, 
Who sold himself to the Evil One, 
Agreeing that when his course was run 
The forfeit he would pay. 

"Old Nick," said he, "what I want is wealth, 
It may come by force, it may come by stealth ; 
It may come at the cost of my precious health, 
But come it must, I say. 

"The amount of money you're bound to give, 
Must fill the house in which I live ; 



48 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

You must start to fill it on Christmas Eve, 
And fill it full that day. 

"From cellar to roof the shanty cram, 
I'll live and be happier than a clam, 
When dead, of course, I won't give a d- 



You may carry the ghost away!" 

On Christmas Eve a multitude 
Of starvelings thronged that neighborhood ; 
Around that sinner's house they stood — 
For bread began to shout, 

Until their hungry, clamorous din, 
So melted or maddened the man of sin, 
That as fast as Satan shovelled 'em in, 
He flung the ducats out. 

Said the devil, "In this there is no fun, 
I may shovel and shovel and ne'er get done, 
The soul of that foxy son-of-a-gun 
Is saved beyond a doubt. 

"The fool is feeding the poor, and I'm 
Hurting my trade. In the course of time, 
With poverty gone — why, vice and crime 
Would be almost put to rout!" 

He dropped his shovel and wildly tore 
His pompadour and cursed and swore, 
And folks who saw it say he more 

Than pranced and danced about. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 4V> 

KARMA. 

Karma hath no written law. 

From Experience you must draw: 

A blank-book open, in the reach 

Of all who wish the truth to teach ; 

Or cast aside your man-made laws 

And reason forward from the cause. 

What benefit can you expect 

From reasoning backward from effect? 

Guard well each thought — the thought of crime 

Is seed that will bear fruit in time. 

Every thought and act and word 

Throughout the world is felt and heard ; 

Contributing towards harmony 

Or discord — as the case may be. 

Love well, but never fear the Lord. 

Do right, but not for heaven's reward. 

For your own sins you must atone ; 

A deed conceived is as good as done. 

You'll get your due, go where you will, 

All you deserve of good or ill. 

Reward or punishment there is none ; 

You simply get what is your own. 

You must suffer if you harm a 

Living thing, by law of Karma. 

Self-preservation bids us shoot 

The robber crow, and weeds uproot. 

But he is one of Nature's foes 

Who kills a robin or plucks a rose. 

Wrong no person. If you do 

Some one else will injure you, 

And he in turn find one to smite him ; 

And so it will go, ad infinitum. 



50 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Thus will you forge a link of pain 

That helps to form an endless chain 

Of misery no man can sever ; 

And thus the devil lives forever. 

Beware, if you'd live in perfect bliss, 

How you set in motion a law like this. 

God may forgive, as preachers say, 

But merciless Karma makes you pay. 

You may weep and pray to the great All-Source, 

But he lets this one law take its course. 

Far from the earth you must withdraw 

If you'd escape from Karmic Law. 



MONKEY AND CAT. 

As Tabby sat washing her face, 

A monkey appeared on the scene. 

It was in the old times when the animals talked ; 

So he threw up his hands, being terribly shocked, 

Crying, "Shame on you! you're unclean!" 

Said Tabby, still washing her face, 

'Tray, kindly convince me of that." 

Said the monkey, " 'Tis plain to my logical mind 

That if you were clean, little need you would find 

For washing your face, Mrs. Cat!" 

And Tabby, still washing her face, 
Then quietly made this reply: 
"The virtues of people make mirrors of them, 
In which the depraved ones can see and condemn 
The vices that in themselves lie." 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 51 



A MERRY CHRISTMAS. 

Christmas is coming, and you've laid your plan 

To make the day as merry as you can. 

What is your programme? Lots of drink — good 

cheer ? 
Why. that's the very thing you did last year! 
Anticipation gives a warmer glow 
Than actual experience will show. 
Go back a year. Now, what does mem'ry say 
Of Christmas? Nothing. But the following day, 
When recollection, half awakened, flings 
Full at your aching head the silly things 
You said or did before oblivion came 
To rescue you from further cause of shame? 
Come, tell me, did you have a merry time? 
You look like one convicted of a crime 
And waiting sentence. Try another way: 
Your table's more than loaded on that day. 
Port wine, plum pudding, turkey, and — but there! 
The Muse turns up her nose at bills of fare. 
Beware the wine: beware the morrow's qualms. 
Call in some wand'rer, sorely needing alms ; 
Some wretch, made wretched by that very sin 
Which you were thinking of indulging in. 
Of what you meant to drink give him one half ; 
What would inebriate one man, two may quaff 
In safety, and with happier effect. 
Then pass the jest; and if, as I suspect, 
Some well-fed dullards at your table sit, 
Your tramp is never wanting in true wit ; 
Like certain matches, all he will require 
Is kindred friction to awaken fire. 
If, to complete the day, you think you need 
The clan-creating confines of a creed, 



52 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Don your best dress and to your church proceed. 
There for a brief space let your mind be bent 
On Bethlehem's baby, whom the Father sent, 
Homeless, moneyless, even from his birth, 
To teach us that our higher selves are not of earth. 



ASPIRATION. 

The man does not live who ne'er felt the desire 
To live on forever, if only in name ; 
The sky that bends o'er immortality's fire 
Must bear its reflection — the light of pure fame. 

There's no man too humble, no pariah too low, 
To see that one light in the gloomiest skies ; 
False friends, notoriety, riches may go, 
But that voice of Gabriel ceaselessly cries: 

Arise, soul immortal! there's work to be done; 
Something for which there is plenty of room 
To stand and expand in the light of the sun, 
While thy tenement crumbles beneath the cold tomb. 

At least, O my Soul, there is something to say 
That shall merit an echo — deserve to be sung 
By true men and free men forever and aye, 
Ere death overtakes me to silence my tongue. 

Something to do that will give thee a place 
On the broad field of Nature which none can deny ; 
Something to say that will mark thee in space. 
Like the trail of a comet athwart the dark skv. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 53 



THE SPHINX. 

Egyptian dust around me lies, 
But God of Egypt never dies. 

A Symbol of the eternal Soul, 
I've seen the ponderous centuries roll 
Slowly levelling out the way ; 
And all to me was a single day. 

I've seen thee burst, undying Fame ; 
And, Glory, I have marked thy shame. 
Born of Fact, by Falsehood nursed, 
I've watched thee, History, from the first. 

Pride in the dust ; Humility throned ; 
Gods acknowledged and Gods disowned ; 
Emipres rise and Empires fall ; 
The Sphinx's eyes beheld them all. 

Miracles, too ; these eyes have seen 
This dust prolific as the green 
Oases ; Myth to Truth here spliced, 
And Horus blossoming into Christ ; 
Osiris, Isis (idols wrecked), 
Still stand for Soul and Intellect. 

I wait and watch with cold lips dumb. 
I know there's something more to come. 

What should I see? The unopened scroll. 
O, purblind man, consult thy Soul! 
I watch with calm, sad, sleepless eyes, 
That portal closed of Paradise. 



54 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Let bigots ban me as they will ; 
A menace and a riddle still, 
I am to them the unknown Sphinx ; 
The Watcher here who never winks. 



LEGEND OF THE WILLOW. 

The willow was — so runs the tale — 

The stateliest tree in all the wood, 
While others bent before the gale, 

Erect and proud the willow stood ; 
Until the day when ruffian hands, 

While searching for a cruel rod, 
Tore from its limbs the straight, stiff wands 

With which to scourge the Son of God! 

When shuddering Nature cleft the rock, 

And the temple's sacred veil was rent, 
And the whole earth trembled 'neath the shock ; 

'Twas then the willow's pride was bent. 
The willow drooped in meek self-blame, 

Knowing its God — unknown to men ; 
The willow drooped in grief and shame, 

And never raised its head again. 

Bend low thine ear, self-righteous man! 

Low cunning knows thou'rt but a fool, 
Bend low and listen to his plan 

To use thy saintship as a tool. 
He knows himself who sometimes swerves 

From wisdom's straight unerring line, 
And beauty finds in folly's curves 

Man is both human and divine. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 55 

LAMENT OF LAMECH. 

Shun Lamech's presence, Lamech's bride, 

And leave for aye his dwelling place ; 
The name of Lamech cast aside, 

For it would be your child's disgrace. 
Touch not my hand, 'tis stained with gore, 

Which from a human being ran. 
Go! Farewell, Love, forevermore, 

For I have slain a fellow-man. 

Thou white-robed angel, Peace of Mind! 

Farewell — a long farewell to thee. 
To Lamech thou art henceforth blind, 

But Death shall lead thee back to me. 
And I will yearn for thy return, 

E'en though thy coming break life's span, 
Since, living, I am doomed to mourn 

For having slain a fellow-man. 

The sun is like a thunder-cloud : 

There's lightning in its blessed light ; 
In midnight gloom I cry aloud ; 

I'm haunted, haunted day and night. 
Cool breezes scorch, and in the springs 

Where I would drink that red stain ran. 
The pigeon coos — the linnet sings: 

"Lamech hath slain a fellow-man!" 

What though the man whose blood I shed, 

His brother in cold blood had slain? 
Of me it will be truly said : 

"He now must wear the brand of Cain." 
Oh, what a sweet relief 'twould be, 

Since life must bear this bitter ban, 
Should earth-born justice murder me 

For having slain a fellow-man. 



56 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

DIFFICULTIES. 

Be true to yourself, it will strengthen your heart 
Nature's a mother more loving than Art. 
Generous as just, she is partial to none. 
Hope and wait patiently ; under the sun 
Nothing worth winning is instantly won. 

Dream not of doing, but do if you can. 
A theory never gave birth to a man. 
Genius and patience and labor are one. 
Work and be practical ; under the sun 
Nothing worth doing is easily done. 



THE TRIO. 

O Whiskey old! O Woman young! 

O Song! sung by melodious tongue. 

World entrancing trinity, 

Ye form the rake's divinity. 

He sees no flaw, respects no law. 
Such slavery is a happy lot, 
And he is a fool who worships not. 

O Whiskey new! O Woman old! 
O Singer, suffering from a cold! 
The rake, disgusted, damns all three, 
And turns, sweet Virtue, then to thee, 
With lengthening jaw, and thumps his craw. 

Life is short and hell is hot ; 

He is a fool who worships not. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 57 

A STAR. 

The bright gems that glitter and glow 

In the ebony crown of King Night 
Were bathing earth's carpet of snow 

In a flood of celestial light, 
When an angel appeared to the King; 

She rivalled the ruler of Day ; 
No earth-walking poet can sing 

Her song — 'twas a heavenly lay. 

A gift to the monarch she bore, 

Surpassing the crown on his head. 
From his hands the dark sceptre she tore, 

And a Golden Rule gave him instead, 
Whose splendor illumined his throne 

With brightness beheld from afar. 
The powers of darkness had flown 

From the lustre of Bethlehem's star. 

There were but three men on the earth 

Whose faces were turned to the morn ; 
Three wise men expecting the birth 

Of Manhood from Spirithood born. 
Long had they been watching the skies ; 

Long eagerly waiting the sign 
That would lead them to feast their glad eyes 

On the human blent with the divine. 

No more do we see that fair Star, 

But can, if not wilfully blind, 
In its place see the portals ajar. 

And entrance to Paradise find. 



58 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Not now in the ether above : 

Its beauty we now can see shine 

In peace and in Brotherly Love, 
And all that on earth is divine. 



THE WILD ROSE. 

In harmony with bird-song throbs the glowing heart 

of June, 
As through the woodland trips a maid who sings a 

merry tune. 
On through the pathless undergrowth in careless 

mood she goes, 
And in a quiet nook espies 
A sweet wild rose. 

"Alas, my pretty wild rose, left in solitude to bloom! 

No longer shall your beauty bright be buried in the 
gloom. 

I will plant you near the pansy, dear, that in my gar- 
den grows." 

And she makes a dying captive of 
The sweet wild rose." 

Though overheard, in notes the maiden failed to un- 
derstand, 

A pretty bird sang, "Let it bloom ; 'tis fresh from Na- 
ture's hand. 

Your lightest touch is ruder than the roughest wind 
that blows 

To scatter wide the petals of 
The sweet wild rose." 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 59 

Thus many a maid of promise rare and many a manly 

youth, 
Enticed by their well-wishers far from innocence and 

truth, 
Will find too late that kindly friends in truth are cruel 

foes, 
Who from the heart of nature pluck 
The sweet wild rose. 

"Full many a flower," mourned poet Gray, "was born 

to blush unseen." 
But nature's eye, from seed to bloom, upon them all 

has been. 
Some flowers art may cultivate, but surely nature 

knows 
That to her wilderness belongs 
The sweet wild rose. 



HE WANTS TO KNOW. 

Man's form was made to look above, 
His Maker to adore and love 

While here below. 
But, wond'ring, blund'ring, from his birth, 
Still more, dissatisfied with earth, 

He wants to know. 

The imp of darkness by his side 
In his free will awakens pride, 

And bids him teach 
That which he does not know himself, 
And grasp what lies on Mystery's shelf 

Beyond his reach. 



60 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

How were stars made? How long ago? 
Heaven itself — he wants to know — 

How near? How far? 
Is the pale moon a dead world's ghost? 
Dwells there a mighty human host 

In yonder star? 

Around him, meanwhile, reigns the night ; 
For darkness still avoids the light. 

Where shadows lurk 
Great evils thrive, their cause unsought. 
Cease, idle talk and fruitless thought, 

And go to work. 

Inquiring man, since death must call 
Such lifetime wasted, what is all 

Thy guesswork worth? 
Seek not to penetrate the skies. 
The duty which before thee lies 

Is here on earth. 



THE SOURCE OF HAPFINESS. 

You may not possess the pozvcr to help your fellows, 

But if you have the will it is enough 
To render the wealth accumulators jealous 

Of your favor with the gods. However rough 
The road you travel, you will never feel it 

While happiness for others you would find ; 
To you alone the gods will then reveal it, 

While selfish men grope, miserably blind. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 61 

POETS OF THE PEOPLE. 

All honor to thee, scholastic bard! 

In every school we hear thy voice ; 
But a sweeter song than thine is heard 

In every home where hearts rejoice. 

Our minds we bend, or ears attend, 

To epic grand and classic rhyme ; 
Yet our hands extend to the hand that penned 

The ballad, simple and sublime. 

The illiterate ear thy name may hear ; 

The illiterate tongue its ignorance mourns ; 
Then drives away the vapors drear, 

With a song of cheer by Moore or Burns. 

The note is worth its face in gold, 

But give to him the current coin ; 
To the lyric bard his heart is sold, 

The bard whose voice his own can join. 

In Lalla Rookh — that garden rare! — 

The poetic bee may rove at will, 
And from the fragrant flowers there 

Of various sweets imbibe his fill. 

With Anacreon's vine the slave of wine 

An arbor round his fancy shapes ; 
Around his soul the tendrils twine, 

For every line's a bunch of grapes. 

But the laurel on the poet's brow 

Is not kept green by songs like these. 

Tom Moore might be forgotten now, 
But for his "Irish Melodies." 



62 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

The scholar's pen, the actor's tongue, 
Must spread the greater poet's fame ; 

But songs the people love are sung 

Where seldom's heard the great bard's name. 



A GREEN CHRISTMAS. 

The Christmas time of long ago, 

When with our bowls of grog 
We sat around the cheerful hearth, 

Where blazed the big Yule log, 
Is gone with all our boyish hopes 

And keen delight in toys ; 
Perhaps our aspirations now 

Are trifling as when boys. 

At any rate, athough the snow 

That should be on the ground 
Is sprinkled o'er our bothered heads, 

Some pleasure may be found 
Reflected from our offspring 

In their childish short-lived joys, 
And memory may bring back the time 

When we were careless boys. 

Let Skinflint prate of "common cents," 

And wag his too wise head. 
When Christmas comes we'll damn expense, 

And give the kids a spread. 
For days three hundred sixty-four 

Wise maxims we'll employ, 
But on Christmas day the old man may 

Become once more a bov. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 63 

THE BOHEMIAN BROTHERHOOD. 

This Society of ours isn't bound by any vows ; 

You will need no influential man to name you. 

Your opinions we won't heed, nor encrust you with a 

creed, 
If you want to be a fellow in Bohemia. 

Faults and follies never scan ; see yourself in every 

man ; 
If you stumble we'll assist, and never blame you. 
Sit and laugh at Bubble Fame ; never try to make a 

name, 
For to-morrow never came to gay Bohemia. 

Our musicians never hold Music in the chink of gold ; 
Than our poets none in Mammon Land is dreamier. 
With enough to eat and drink, of Dame Fortune 

never think ; 
There are better natured ladies in Bohemia. 

To begin, we banish Care, hence we never comb gray 

hair; 
As a thinking man we never could esteem you. 
Every man is, as a rule, wise enough to be a fool ; 
For the owl is not a symbol in Bohemia. 

Yes, they say we early die; but — the half-dead slaves! 

— they lie. 
You'll enjoy, until a higher life shall claim you, 
(By a sort of second birth) all the good things of the 

earth. 
Don't you want to be a brother in Bohemia? 



04 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

COMMERCE AND NATURE. 

With the swift tide of Commerce careworn I float ; 
One who sat by a brookside, in days now remote, 
Dreaming dreams — seeing visions that never shall 

fade, 
Even when I'm at rest in Nirvana's deep shade. 

I've heard the grand opera — remembered it long; 
Yet Memory holds longer the meadow lark's song ; 
Down the aisles of Cathedrals sweet music heard roll ; 
But the hush of the forest sank into my soul. 

I have seen the great paintings, and know what they 

cost; 
But where is the Artist like Sunlight and Frost? 
Give wealth to the Sculptor who carves the white 

block ; 
Give me the rude bowlder and moss-cushioned rock. 

From my great Mother, Nature, too long do I roam. 
Though she misses me not, she would welcome me 

home. 
Some day I'll leave Commerce and (how the thought 

thrills!) 
Return to the forest, lakes, valleys and hills. 



EPITAPH FOR A WOODEN GRAVE-MARK. 

Why store up wealth to build mausoleums? 

Man knows it not when to this hole he comes. 

Why should want create alarm in us? 

No time is long that has a terminus. 

Nor want, nor wealth, we cannot take wi' us, 

For both belong to the sphere terraqueous. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 65 



SONG OF A BIVER. 

Down from my mother hill 

Leaped I, a tiny rill. 

"Some day," said she, "you will 

Be a great river." 
Downward with spirits gay, 
Joining my mates in play, 
Strength gaining day by day, 

Union the giver. 

I grew apace, and then 
Roved through a fairy glen, 
Where would-be fishermen 

Dream as they angle. 
Hard by that rippling stream 
Lovers oft came to dream, 
With ne'er a worldly scheme 

Or petty wrangle. 

Their prattle wakened hope; 
I, too, began to grope, 
Seeking the broader scope 

Of joint endeavor. 
Need I the tale relate 
Of how I met my mate, 
And became twice as great? 

I am a river. 



On dashed my mate and I, 
O'er the rocks leaping high, 
Up towards the smiling sky — 
Smiling derision! 



66 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Soon came the end of this ; 
Dashed were our hopes of bliss 
Over a precipice, 

Such is ambition. 

Hark to the city's din! 
Now for the drains of sin ; 
Now for the pouring in 

Of cares that madden. 
Now for discordant noise ; 
No more shall I rejoice, 
No more the song bird's voice 

My soul shall gladden. 

Music is mine no more ; 

Strife hoots from shore to shore 

Fain would I drown thy roar, 

Commerce, my master! 
Varied the loads I bear: 
Pain, pleasure, hope, despair, 
And, 'neath my surface fair, 

Death and disaster. 

Wild mother, weep o'er me; 
Poor boy! 'twas fate's decree. 
Sweet shall thy meeting be 

With him to-morrow. 
Come to me, Suicide! 
Come like a trusting bride; 
Deep in my bosom hide 

Thy shame and sorrow. 

Farewell, ye laughing rills, 
Leaping from cloud-kissed hills ; 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 67 

Guileless the hope that thrills 

Each infant river. 
Full grown you wish to be, 
But when you are, like me, 
Nearing an unknown sea — 

Ah, then, you'll shiver! 

No more I freely range ; 
Seek nothing new or strange ; 
Heed not the season's change, 

Wintry or vernal ; 
Windings and twinings past, 
Straight is my course at last 
Down to the ocean vast, 

Fathomless, eternal. 



NIGHT. 

Why should the bullfrog groan 

When the night comes? 
Why should he bemoan 

As if a blight comes? 
It is by night alone 
That what little there is known 
Of the Universe is shown 

And true light comes. 
Descend, then, dazzling sun 

When the night comes, 
I am glad thy course is run, 

And if night comes 
On the storm's cloudy wings, 

And utter darkness flings 
Over earth's obnoxious things — 

Then respite comes. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

EXCUSES. 

All the world is like an orchard, 

When the farmer gleans his crop, 
Rotten fruit is not discarded, 

But is seldom found on top. 
Have you failed to be an apple, 

Which a certain price will bring? 
Pose, then, as the spotless blossom, 

Pruned away in early spring. 

Somewhere in the autumnal muster, 

If you cannot find a place, 
You were nipped by frost — not later 

Shaken off in foul disgrace. 
Anything, my friend, but failure! 

Never say it was your sin, 
Bad boys, bad luck, some one's blunder 

Prematurely took you in. 



" TO-DAY." 

Let the Present encircle us ; as for the Past, 

It is gone to convince us that nothing can last. 

No cloud from the future should darken our lives ; 

For, though constantly coming, it never arrives. 
To-day, boys, to-day, 
This hour will be with us for aye. 

Hope, Despair and the Future: three persons in one, 
And that one a chimera — luring us on, 
Making all things in life disappointment and dread 
For the man who is constantly looking ahead. 
To-day, boys, to-day, 
This hour will be with us for aye. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 69 

To-day is still with us. Its sunshine and gloom 
Are but changes beguiling our road to the tomb. 
A laugh and a groan may be in the same breath, 
Make the most of To-day, for To-morrow is Death. 
To-day, boys, to-day, 
This hour will be with us for aye. 

Then here's to the Present, for naught else can last, 

The Future can't catch us ; to h with the past. 

To-day's always with us, let weal or woe come, 
Then here's to the Present, in water or rum. 
To-day, boys, to-day, 
This hour will be with us for aye. 



HARMONY. 

What's Poetry? the Rhymer asks, 

For he knows least of all ; 
Though on the ear to music tuned 

His polished numbers fall, 
A pleasing sound that lulls to sleep, 

But never wakens thought; 
Smooth roads that ne'er suggest how hard 

The patient paver wrought. 

But ask the winds ; the boreal blast 

That sweeps the wintry sleet 
About our ears, that stirs the blood, 

And makes the pulses beat ; 
Or gentler breezes from the South 

That bring the Northern nose 
Memories of the land where bloom 

The magnolia and the rose. 



70 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

The winds that spread each word we speak 

Abroad from pole to pole, 
Making each breath we draw a thought — 

The essence of the soul. — 
Are under one Universal Law, 

Whether voicing our joy or grief, 
Clashing together thunder-clouds, 

Or leaving the last brown leaf. 

From rugged pine to graceful palm 

They waft the mystic tale 
Of how the poison turns to balm — 

Of how the roughest gale 
And gentlest zephyr are but one, 

If rightly understood, 
And working for the best of all 

Are the evil and the good. 



THE LAUREATE TO HIS PSYCHE. 

Draw thy mantle around thee close, Psyche, my soul! 
A cold wave is coming and costly is coal. 
Let thy natural charms be fresh moulded in style, 
And on thy deformities mankind will smile. 

O Psyche, my true friend, the days are gone by — 
The days when we dared to look Power in the eye. 
Draw a veil o'er thy keen eye that shines like a star ; 
See things as they "ought to be, not as they are." 

There's a brighter light dawning, O Psyche, for thee ; 
But crouch in the shadow, it might dazzle me. 
Encumber thy shapely limbs, now that thou'rt sold, 
With chains of self-interest — chains of pure gold. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 71 

Now get thee behind me, and stay in the rear, 
Like a Turk's Grecian captive a-trembling with fear. 
No longer thou'lt lead me, but thee I'll control, 
Draw thy mantle around thee close, Psycfie, my soul. 



WALT WHITMAN'S POETEY. 

What poet's this who owns the earth ; 
Who lived and died before his birth ; 
Who in the face of death found mirth? 

To find him where shall we go? 
His Thought — his Soul — we here rehearse. 
Unschooled in prose, unruled by verse, 
'Tis Whitman — He, the universe! — 

The hearty whole-souled Ego. 

To think how oft we used to meet ; 
How oft I passed him on the street 
In Camden town, and failed to greet 

Because I failed to know him. 
Strange man, I called him ; strange indeed, 
To lads like me that took no heed. 
Of all the poems we write or read, 

Life is the strangest poem. 

Dead? So's the grass where he loafed so well- 
The meadow green — the ferny dell — 
The mouse that staggers the infidel, 

And the dappled sky above him ; 
Dead lies Delaware in his bed ; 
Low is blue Ocean's hoary head ; 
The Angel of Death himself is dead, 

For Whitman used to love him. 



72 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Each living thing was a part of him, 
From lives that fly to lives that swim ; 
Heaven's bright vault and the cavern dim 

Were his attic and his basement. 
He loved the flower, yet understood 
The noxious weed, too ; and he could 
Find all in himself and all things good, 

And death was but displacement. 

From the printed page I see him rise, 
Gray old man with the kindly eyes 
And mien benignant! Memory flies 

Back to my native city. 
Again near his home I see him pace, 
In spite of pain, with musing face ; 
And there at his feet I humbly place 

The tribute of my ditty. 



THE KINGDOM OF SILENCE. 

In the Kingdom of Silence there's plenty to do, 
But nothing to say unless pithy and true. 
Mouth closed and eye open, there no one is blind ; 
The subjects are tongues and the monarch is mind. 

The fault-finder there lets his neighbor's alone, 
Having plenty to do to discover his own. 
There Action is eloquent, dumb is debate ; 
And laws made by Nature no lawyers create. 

No Knowledge-Box there with his lid open wide, 
Lets out all that's in him — derived from outside; 
But the man of true Knowledge will speak by request, 
As the sponge, all-absorbent, needs but to be pressed. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 73 

The rattle-pate there is like our rattlesnake: 
Fools warning the wise with the chatter they make. 
Yet solemnity there is not taken for sense ; 
Laughter, though quiet, is hearty — intense. 

No donkey, annoyed by the ass's loud din, 
Complains that he can't get a single word in! 
But silvery speech, at Necessity's call, 
There receives golden attention from all. 

But the babbler of secrets — the tattler of tales — 
The gossipy woman, and man who bewails 
The woes of the world and the lack of God's grace — 
Think the Kingdom of Silence a desolate place. 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 

Star of the evening, what art thou winking on: 
The progress of night or decline of the sun? 

Perhaps it depends upon what we are thinking on: 
Promises broken, or duty well done. 

Full well we know thou wilt look less approvingly 
On dull rusty iron than bright burnished steel. 

The clear running streamlet smiles back at thee lov- 
ingly ; 
The pool that is stagnant no pleasure can feel. 

From the man who delights in truth, honor and 
purity, 

All who bask in fame's sun may turn proudly away ; 
Though at noon he may toil in the shade of obscurity, 

Night sets thee, a gem, in the crown of his day. 



74 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

MY FORTY-FOURTH CHRISTMAS. 

Anticipation Day! I see 

The children gather round the tree 

I decked last night. 
Time has flown! Yet it seems so long 
Since my morning prayer was a merry song, 

The pure delight 
I must have known I hardly miss, 
But realize that my song of this, 

The afternoon, 
Is not so simple, clear and glad. 
The mirth is gone, and something sad 

Has changed the tune. 
But still, whate'er the Muse may bring 
To this crude harp she'll find a string 

Responsive, proud 
To bear her message for the few, 
Though it may pass unnoticed through 

The heedless crowd. 
Without premeditation, then, 
I'll lisp my lay, let judging men 

Be pleased or vexed. 
I'm on the stage to play my part, 
Whether from Nature or from Art 

I take my text. 
A pleasing tale I may rehearse, 
Or clothe in scarlet robe of verse 

A brother's wrong. 
Sorrow or laughter, hate or love, 
Whate'er may be the burden of 

My coming song, 
I'll sing that song; let critics give 
Me heads of cabbage while I live ; 






MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 75 

They're fit to eat ; 
Or let friends, when I seem to die, 
Visit me where I will not lie, 

With flowers sweet. 

INFIDELITY. 

Infidelity is to doubt 

That Truth at last will put to rout 

All that is false ; and boldly shout 

In market places: 
"I'll be no longer bought and sold! 
'Tis time the difference should be told 
Between the priceless hearts of gold 

And brazen faces!" 

Infidelity basely lends 

Aid to injustice ; slanders friends ; 

And, to attain his selfish ends, 

Ruins his brother ; 
Poisons the politics of his state, 
With cunning lies and artful prate, 
Leading his fellow men to hate 

And wrong each other. 

No, no ; the devil is not a myth. 

The name he's newly christened with 

Is Infidelity, and his pith 

Is human marrow. 
Still he is Legion, for his sons 
Manage our press and man our guns, 
While he through crusty Conscience runs 

His plough and harrow. 



76 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

TWO CHOIRS. 

A dead bird had its perch 

In her hat — latest style ; 
And she entered the church 

With a complacent smile ; 
For she knew as she sat 

How the dudes would admire 
The dead bird in her hat, 

As she sang in the choir, 
Giving praise to the Lord in her way. 

To the woodland repair ; 

Oh, with me come along, 
Where the balmy spring air 

Is replete with bird-song; 
For God, who hears prayer 

In the soul's mute desire, 
Is interpreter there 

Of that sweet feathered choir, 
Singing praise unto Him every day. 



TO-MORROW. 

Day after day is passed away 

In hoping and in trusting; 
Forming a chain of grief or pain, 

Which we must keep from rusting 
With oil of hope, while still we cope 

With each new day of sorrow, 
Link after link, and daily think 

Our joy will come to-morrow. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 77 

Thus chained we chase from place to place 

A phantom ever keeping 
Beyond our clutch — but not too much 

To keep despair from sleeping. 
And when worn out, the sexton, doubt, 

A grave's about to burrow, 
He's put to rout ; we hear a shout: 

Wait! wait until to-morrow! 

Look up, sad soul ; there is a goal 

Far, far above that scoffer. 
Such phantoms smile but to beguile ; 

'Tis Dead Sea fruit they offer. 
But God, unknown to thee, hath sown 

Seed in each tear-worn furrow, 
Whose fruit shall bloom beyond the tomb 

In the only sure to-morrow. 

Then let us pray and work to-day. 

The future is uncertain. 
God's hand alone can make it known, — 

Can draw aside the curtain. 
And if he should, 'twould do no good, — 

He knows we could not borrow 
The joy or care which we'd see there, — 

If Death came ere to-morrow. 



TO THE ICONOCLAST. 

"Idols" are ideals. Let 'em alone. 

To those who love and know 'em, 
Though to you but gold, brass, wood or stone, 

Each is a perfect poem ; 

LofC. 



78 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

A symbol of something nobler far 
Than the vanities you may cherish. 

Destructible visible signs they are 
Of truths that can never perish. 

You may preach and prate of "idolatry," 
But the spirit bears no restriction; 

Wood is as sacred as gold to me 
In the sign of the crucifixion. 

Oh, dream not that the man is here — 
That his soul stoops to adore it ; 

His spirit communes with a higher sphere, 
While his body bows before it. 

But go, since smashing's to be your plan, 
And smash the image breaker; 

The iconoclast who destroys in man 
The image of his Maker. 



EPITAPH. 

Here lies a man who was dispossessed 

Of a devil when life departed. 
The spark that had animated his breast — 

From the hell of the envious hearted — 
Is quenched at last by a neighbor's tears! 
Now, don't interrupt with incredulous sneers, 
Nor think for a moment that sympathy's breath 

Could burst such a buoyant bubble; 
The fact is the fellow was tickled to death 

By the news of a neighbor's trouble. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 79 

THE EMPTY FLASK. 

In a corner of the cellar, mid cobwebs, dust and 
gloom, 

Beneath a heap of musty unpaid bills ; 
Surely thou wert worthy of a better tomb, 

Poor victim of consumption — worst of ills! 
Thou wert of my table the brightest ornament, 

Than thee no better company I'd ask. 
Many a happy evening alone with thee I've spent — 

Alas! my lifeless empty whiskey flask! 

Where are my boon companions — that merry-hearted 
throng — 

For whom thy sparkling life-blood ebbed so fast? 
They cheered thy sinking spirits with many a ringing 
song; 

But, though they did stay by thee to the last, 
Not one of them is willing in thy elegy to join ; 

To me alone is left the mournful task ; 
Not one of them will offer e'en to lend a single coin 

To replenish thee, my empty whiskey flask. 

O, what horrors seized me when thy spirit fled ; 

Creditors crowded round with outstretched hands. 
Other demons teased me, till I wished that I was dead 

Drunk or far away in foreign lands. 
And so they still torment me, they give me no respite ; 

They know me well, no matter how I mask, 
But if thou wert alive thou couldst put them all to 
flight. 

Revive, revive! my empty whiskey flask. 



80 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

How the perspiration stands out upon my brow! 

How fearfully my eyeballs seem to roll! 
I wonder if the demons that grin around me now 

Would take a mortgage on my battered soul? 
If so, I could defy them, and all my other foe^s, 

As in thy genial smile once more I'd bask ; 
And every time the demons would threaten to fore- 
close, 

I'd reanimate my empty whiskey flask. 



DEATH m LIFE. 

They have no life who have no purpose ; 

By their coursing blood embalmed, 
The animated contradictions 

Are not only dead, but damned. 

Corpses not yet in your coffins: 
Perfumed walking fashion-plates: 

Silly, trifling, idle feasters: 

The man who really lives creates. 

Sauntering dudes and lounging ladies, 
The grave is your becoming bed. 

Man may cheat the undertaker; 
When his zvork is done he's dead. 

Why remain above the daisies 

Without a mission — scorning toil? 

Be at least a fertilizer — 

Go under and enrich the soil. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 81 

THE FISHERMAN'S MOTHER. 

The hour was late, but I could not sleep. 

I sat here listening to the roar 

Of the angry sea as it lashed the shore ; 
Praying, as only a mother can pray, 

For the safe return of my only son, 
Who had sailed away at the break of day, 

To win, as his father before him won, 
His daily bread from the briny deep. 

I sat here listening to the roar 
Of the angry sea as it lashed the shore, 
Hearing no sound but the tempest's din, 
When the latch was lifted and Jack walked in. 
He walked to his old place near the stove, 
Then turned and faced me. Heaven above! 
When will that picture leave my mind? 
Though my eyes with age are growing dim, 
The eyes of the soul will ne'er grow blind. 
I can hardly see you, but I still see him. 
His clothing was drenched, his head was bare, 
And seaweeds clung to his dripping hair. 
My heart stood still with a strange, cold thrill. 
Oh! the mournful eyes and the ghastly cheek! 
My hands I clasped — something I gasped ; 
His pale lips moved, but he did not speak. 
Without one word he walked to the door, 
Then turned and gazed upon me once more ; 
And then — I fell fainting upon the floor. 

Next morning the neighbors broke the news, 

Which, the night before, my boy had made known ; 

I had nothing more in this world to lose, 
And ever since then I have lived alone. 



82 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

THE MISSING LINK. 

He held .me with the glittering glass 

Stuck in his languid eye. 
A tailless horse he rode, of course ; 

I mildly asked him why. 

"He used it during summah time 
To bwush off flies," said he. 

"I docked it lest it might suggest 
That there were flies on me." 

This answer roused my righteous wrath ; 

"Speak truly; thou didst rob 
That noble brute, thou d — d galoot, 

To ape the English snob. 

"I know what docked thy horse's tail; 

Now tell me, who docked thine? 
Thou art, I think, the missing link, 

Whose loss made Darwin pine." 



HEAVEN AND HELL. 

Close by his home a crystal pond. 

Fit to bathe his soul in; 
With a lofty hill beyond, 

A view of Peace controlling; 
But the demon Discontent, 

Rising like a siren, 
To the summit with him went, 

All he saw desiring. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 83 

His brother, where the life-breath comes 

O'er garbage heap and gutter, 
Earning in the city's slums 

Scanty bread and butter, 
Hears discord with a tranquil mind. 

Perhaps he knows no better; 
But smoke the Vision cannot blind, 

Nor brick walls fancy fetter. 

Thus heaven or hell each man may make 

By mental necromancy ; 
Between the two his choice may take: 

Dull Fact or brilliant Fancy. 
But, if before each social ill, 

To bow without resentment 
Means "heaven," I must decline the pill ; 

To Hades with Contentment. 

So come thou angel, Discontent, 

And blast the rocks of Custom. 
Too much time and talk is spent, — 

Reformers! Who can trust 'em? 
The path of Progress clear at once; 

With Well-enough do battle, 
And leave Contentment to the dunce, 

The pigs — and such-like cattle. 

THE TRUE SCHOOL. 

You may be unread — unlettered. Education never 
bettered 

The spiritual condition of a man ; 
But in common we inherit an immortal holy spirit 

From our Father since the -human race began. 



84 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

If you're seeking worldly knowledge you will find it 
in the college, 
Where e'en Folly may the ancient page unroll ; 
But Wisdom has no teacher and the only way to 
reach her 
Is to seek an introduction through your soul. 

You must learn to love your neighbor, even though 
he should belabor 
You with a club, or cut you with a sneer ; 
And when visited by sorrow bear in mind the bright 
to-morrow, 
And see Heaven's smile reflected in a tear. 
» Quarrel not witli sect or nation and avoid all litiga- 
tion ; 
Keep all the passions under full control. 
You must even seem inhuman and be blind to sex in 
woman, 
If you want to get acquainted with your soul. 

You must be prepared for malice, for the King of 
Hell is jealous, 
And his forces will assail your rear and flank. 
His children will surround you, scoff at, persecute and 
hound you, 
And instead of double D, you will be Crank. 
But heed them not ; keep onward in your tireless jour- 
ney sunward, 
Where the heavens will be opened like a scroll ; 
Though in crowds you will be lonely, and will hear 
Fame's trumpet only 
In your God's approving voice within your soul. 



MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 85 

THE THINKER'S GRAVE. 

His tomb is his throne, from which he'll rule 

Millions of thinkers yet unborn. 
Disciples of those who called hm fool 

And held the work of his life in scorn, 
Shall — acting like the unconscious tool — 
Unwittingly aid in the Thinker's rise 
With a pedestal formed of sanctified lies. 

The day of death is his hour of birth. 

From the single seed springs a thousand flowers. 
More dreadful than when he walked the earth, 

To the bigots who note his growing powers — 
Though their fathers found him a theme for mirth — 
Is the Thinker mouldering in the dust ; 
For his Thought lives on, and expand it must. 



A PRAYER. 

God guide our sightless leaders — 

"Blind leaders of the blind." 
God save the little children 

From their parents' state of mind. 
God shield all true religion 

From sacrifice of blood. 
God bless the honest heretic 

And make him understood. 
God help the manly effort 

That tries to help itself. 



86 MARY ANN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

God keep me from the worship 
Of the soulless God of pelf. 

God give me work in plenty, 
And at three-score and ten 

Man may chisel on my tombstone 
The single word — Amen. 



End of Volume I. 



J&ft - 8 loor 



27 mo 



